༻⚜️༺      

     If there is one thing I do not like about the Hufflepuff Common Room, it's that it's much more humid than the Slytherin quarters. It was only the beginning of May, but the sitting area was already baking in the creeping summer heat when Ernie and I emerged from the tunnels.

     It was too warm for us to light the furnace, so Ernie brought out his wand and uttered a spell. A small glowing sphere of light emerged from the tip, growing bigger and bigger like a small balloon until it was almost the size of a Quaffle. It floated into the air and hovered above our heads, bathing us in an icy blue.

     "It'll have to do," said Ernie as he rummaged between the cushions for the bag of weed. He finds it, yanks it out, and proceeds to roll a joint in the table. "So," he said, "want to explain why you have a Time Turner hidden in the lining of your pillow?"

     I said nothing for a minute as I considered how much to tell him. Ernie knows no boundaries when it comes to fixing wrongs. He is like an obsessive repair-wizard too dedicated to his job; the moment he notices something out of place, he latches onto it, refusing to let go until it is put right. If he found out about Ainsley's promise to Montague, he would surely bring it up to her and cause a fuss, and she might never trust me again.

     On the other hand, she hadn't explicitly said it was meant to be a secret — it was I who'd taken the liberty to keep it from her friends. I decided some good might actually come from telling Ernie after all. He is swift-minded and tactful, sometimes too wily for his own good. But he has a solution for everything. He might know a way to get Ainsley out of this mess.

     Once I started talking, it was hard to stop. Desperation and excitement muddled the long stream of words that poured from my mouth. By some miracle, I somehow managed to string together the whole story coherently, and in perfect chronological order, no less. I tell him about the Montagues' hideous secret, Ainsley's new deal with their son, and how the Room of Requirement had given me the Time Turner. Lastly, I told him about my own deal with Montague, which I decided to throw in at the last minute.

     Ernie listened intently, stock-still except to put the joint to his lips occasionally. "Cor," he muttered when I was finally done. He blinked away to the fireplace for a moment and took a particularly long drag, his cheeks hollowing under the ghostly blue light as he sucked in. "You're not gonna' use it, are you?"

     I stared at him. "Of course, I am! This is my way out, Ern. Our way out."

     "Out of what?" he asked, in dead seriousness.

     "This!" I gestured to the air vaguely.

     He looked around, then canted an eyebrow. "Reality...?"

     "No, this... this shitshow!"

     "Not far off from what I just said."

     There was a tone of sarcasm in his voice that I didn't like. He was making it sound like I was being deceitful, as if I was trying to lie or conjure an illusion, when all I wanted was to show him that I finally had something actionable to do. I could help Ainsley. I could finally be happy. This was a mission that was worth my while. My real purpose.

     "If I can change the past, I can make a difference," I tried to explain. "To Ainsley's life and mine."

     "You really think you can do that by messing time?" asked Ernie.

     "No," I said through gritted teeth. "By controlling it."

     The Time Turner sat on the table in front of us, observing our exchange in ominous silence. Ernie's gaze darted to it frequently, as if it might spontaneously explode. He was looking at it so often and with such apprehension that I almost wanted to lunge forward and grab it, in case he tried to take it away from me again. But I reminded myself there was no need to. It had been given to me. I was in control, not Ernie or anybody else.

     Ernie was quiet for a moment. "Those who seek to control time become enemies of reality," he said finally, leaning back and returning the spliff to his lips.

     The surface of my skin was beginning to dampen with anxiety. I had expected some resistance from Ernie, but I'd been so sure I would be able to convince him to see things from my point of view. I didn't need his support. I wanted it. Desperately.

     "I'd be creating my own reality," I challenged, but he only shrugged. "Those who seek to create their own reality become enemies of the truth."

     "The truth becomes whatever I want it to be," I answered hotly. "There is no one truth. Besides, what has the 'truth' ever done for any of us? The word doesn't even mean anything!"

     Ernie blew out a long stream of smoke. "Draco," he said, steadily, "the truth is what's happening now. Right at this moment. If you want to entertain the possibility of alternate realities, fine. But as your friend, I'm bound by responsibility to tell you that you might be letting it go to your head a little. Time Turners don't exist for us to change things that have already happened. You're not the bloody Dagda. There's nothing you can do with that thing that'll help Ainsley's situation."

     "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING—"

     Calm. I need to be calm. Getting angry would not help my case. I pressed my hands to my face and took a deep breath. "Ernie," I said, in the most level voice I could manage, "have you not heard anything I've just told you? Montague's parents are Death Eaters. If Ainsley goes with him, it is going to be the worst mistake of her life."

     Ernie didn't lose his composure. "We live in a world of mistakes," he replied, maintaining the same aggravating nonchalance. "Sometimes we have to let ourselves make them."

     The rage returned suddenly and all at once, burning like hellfire in my chest. "So you're just going to let her go? You're willing to let her die?" My whole body was quaking with unspent anger.

     "I'm not letting her do anything," he shot back quickly. "You've got to stop doing this, Draco. Stop unloading the entire responsibility of this on us and yourself. Look, for all you know, the change of scenery might be good for Montague. You have to admit this bloody Scottish weather isn't doing any favours for someone with depression."

     "He abuses her, Ernie," I spat. "I can assure you whatever that piece of shit has, the weather isn't to blame for it."

     "All I'm saying is that we don't know what will happen when they go to Switzerland," Ernie corrected himself calmly. "Ainsley made a choice to go with him because she thinks it will help you and your family. It was a decision she made, of her own free will. You know as well as I do that she's not going to listen to you, or me, or Hannah, or anyone. At some point, we must let nature take its course, no matter how senseless or stupid that 'nature' may be."

     He may as well have beaten up Ainsley himself.

     I jumped to my feet in anger. "I've never heard such a farrago of shit come out of anyone's mouth. Let nature take its course? If we'd let nature take its course, we'd all be dead right now. This castle wouldn't even be standing. And you most certainly wouldn't be sat there like some pompous, washed-up Cheshire cat telling me the way to bloody Wonderland!"

     Ernie took the blunt out from his lips. "Firstly, the Cheshire cat told Alice the way to the Queen of Hearts. She was already in Wonderland. And second," he went on before I could get a word in, "you're not listening to what I'm saying. We have done as much as we can for Ainsley. The only thing left is to be there for her when she needs us."

     "Have we done as much as we can?" I said before he had even finished speaking. "We haven't tried everything. If we used the Time Turner to—"

     "Draco..."

     "I know it's easy for you to take the moral high ground, but that's because you're not living my reality, or Ainsley's," I snarled. "All you do is slouch around all day smoking weed and regurgitating axioms that don't make any fucking sense. You told me you regret not saying something about her bruises. What have you done since then? Nothing! And I, for one, am tired of doing nothing."

     "This was her choice," Ernie repeated, more firmly this time. "If you muck around with time, you'd be taking that away from her."

     My shoulders were trembling with the effort not to deck him right there and then. "CHOICE?!" I roared so loudly it was a wonder I didn't wake anyone up. "You're telling me she had a choice when her mother fell ill? When her father died? When Cedric died and she slit her fucking wrists because she thought she had no one else? The only choice she ever had was becoming friends with you."

     I towered over Ernie, obscuring the ball of light so that all I could see of him were his wide eyes glaring back up at me. "So where were you, Ernie? Where were you when Montague beat her black and blue? When he paraded her in front of the Slytherins like a fucking show pony to be pointed and laughed at? Until you can answer that, you don't have the right to sit there and lecture me about choices, because you haven't the slightest idea of what it's like to be born into this world where every decision in your life is already made for you."

     Ernie didn't flinch a muscle. His blazing eyes met mine with steadfastness. "So that gives you the right to make Ainsley's choices for her?"

     Anger was a strange look on him. It rendered him unrecognisable. The murky shadows deepened the crease between his brow, and the muscles in his body were tensed as if he was ready to strike me. It was like looking at a stranger for the first time.

     "Everybody deals with shit situations, Draco," said Ernie. "Ainsley has her lot, but guess what? So do all of us who weren't born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Now, we've established that Ainsley's the farthest thing from stupid. She's twenty and more than capable of thinking for herself. We must let her do what she thinks is right. Why do I even have to be telling you this?"

     I suddenly became aware of a deep ache in my chest. It was more than anger — it was bitter, vengeful. It was the same feeling I got when I looked at Montague. At my parents. It took me a few seconds to understand what it was.

     Resentment.

     Ernie had known Ainsley far longer than I did. He's had more time to notice the signs; the slow, calculated manipulation, the cruel teasing that turned physical. He had noticed. He just didn't have the guts to do anything about it. He was as afraid as I had once been, as I still am. And I despised him greatly for it.

     "You know nothing about choice," I said, my tone dangerously low. "You said yourself that you'd never experienced death until the war, and even then, you didn't lose anyone close. How could you possibly understand the pain that comes with it?"

     Ernie smushed his spliff on the table, cramming it down so hard so that it flattened and left a dark circular mark on the unvarnished wood. "You're right," he said, with enough poison in his voice to match mine. "I don't know about loss. But I know about regret. And I am telling you right now, Draco, if you use that Time Turner, you will regret it."

     "But I love her," I insisted, hoping to appeal to his sentimentality. But instead of acquiescing, he leapt from his seat without warning and snatched the Time Turner from the table. "Oh yeah?" he said. "So do I."

     "You!" I scoffed. "If you loved her, you'd have done something ages ago!"

     He snickered humourlessly. "The cauldron calling the kettle black. Why am I even surprised?"

     My heart was racing as the Time Turner swing from his closed fist. I stretched out my hand. "Give it back."

     Ernie drew further away from me. "You're not thinking about the consequences, Draco. You know what happens when you meddle with other people's lives. You said you wanted to do good. What happened to that?"

     "If you have a single cell left in that weed-addled brain of yours, you'd see that this is the good!" I retaliated. "Honestly, people say you're wise beyond your years, but if they bothered to wade through all the bullshit, they'd see you for what you truly are."

     "And what's that? Go on," he urged when I hesitated, "don't get all shy now!"

     "A fraud," I said, coldly. "You're a fraud, Ernie. You don't even believe half the things you say yourself. You told me you want to protect Ainsley and yet you've done fuck all. But you can tell a bloody good lie, I'll give you that. Yeah, that's what you are. A liar. And a lazy, cowardly one at that!"

     Ernie's expression changed. His shoulders fell, and his frown disappeared, the anger along with it. Now, there was no emotion at all. "Fine," he said, in a voice that was frighteningly lifeless. "Suit yourself. But I'm not going to stand here and bicker over Ainsley like old house-witches at the market. Do whatever you want. I'm going to bed." He flung the Time Turner at me with all his might. It clinked against my chest dully as I scrambled to catch it. He waved his arm forcefully at the ball of light and it went out, plunging us back into night.

     At the doorway, he paused and cut me one last glance. The expression on his face, I could see, even in the pitch darkness, wasn't fury or sadness, but the same one Mother gives me when she finds that I've disappointed Father yet again — as if, for a moment, the purpose of my existence was a great mystery to her. 

     And then he turned and walked out, almost kicking into the cat, which had wandered into the room, attracted by the commotion. It leapt out of the way with a hiss. When I looked up, he was gone.

༻⚜️༺ 

     I don't know how long I remained standing there, dumbfounded and shaken by the whole thing. My anger had dissipated as quickly as it had come, but what remained was a sickening mish-mash of other emotions, churning violent and hot in my chest.

     There was frustration — from the ridiculousness of Ernie's opinions and his refusal to listen and understand — but also fear and panic. What did this mean for him and me? I'd never argued with a friend before. Not like this, and not with someone I actually liked. I didn't know how these things typically went.

     Was he waiting for me to find him and apologise? And if I didn't (because I certainly wasn't feeling inclined to), would we still speak tomorrow? Surely he must hate me now. I thought of how his eyes would take on the same look as that of Wayne Hopkins and Oliver Rivers, regarding me with distaste, like I was covered in the stench of aristocratic sin. Maybe I was to pack my things at once and head back to the Slytherin dorms. It was all very confusing, and I didn't know what to do.

     The cat meowed, drawing my attention back to it. Its fuzzy grey fur and black socks gave it the appearance of a little storm cloud floating fifteen inches off the ground, which I think is an apt description to match its atrocious personality. Its gender is a mystery, and it doesn't have a proper name. The Hufflepuffs call it silly things like Mr Muffins and Cuddlepie; it changes every other day. I just call it the Blasted Cat.

     The Blasted Cat meowed again, its black muzzle yawning open to reveal four tiny fangs and a pink tongue. My lips curled in aversion. Without taking my eyes off the creature, I slowly inched back towards the couch and lowered myself onto it.

     To my absolute horror, the very moment I sat down, it followed suit, darting forward and springing effortlessly onto the armrest at the other end of the couch. It settled down on its haunches and stared at me across the length of the couch with its unblinking blue eyes.

     I stared back, appalled by its audacity.

     Utterly unbothered, it flicked its tail about, observing me in the lazy fashion of felines. I glared harder at it, thinking that perhaps if I concentrated enough, I could will it to go away.

     I've never been a cat person. We've had dogs briefly at the Mano. Not those small yappy ones that shit everywhere, but large black hounds with snapping jaws that could rip out an intruder's jugular. They were trained to obey commands, retrieve game, and guard our compound. We kept them outside in kennels next to the stables, and once in a while, I would watch Dobby engage them in a game of fetch to keep them active. I never went near them; their thick hairs shed horrifically and made me sneeze. 

     As it happens, I didn't have to worry about that for long. When Voldemort returned, Father sold off the whole lot of them for a sizeable fortune. It was mostly for the poor creatures' sakes, just in case our new lodgers felt so inclined to hurt them. My point is, they were highly trained, which meant they were predictable, like most pet dogs are. Cats, on the other hand, are lawless, temperamental bastards that operate on their own terms. 

     Which is probably why the Blasted Cat refused to budge despite my mental threats. Instead, it meowed at me once more — this time in what I perceived to be a rather menacing manner — so I shifted even further away. When I was satisfied with the distance I'd put between us, I allowed myself to sink back into my thoughts.

     Recalling my conversation with Ernie sent another wave of anger crashing over my head. It was a blow to realise now that he wasn't very smart after all. He had a quick mind and a glib tongue, but that's all there was to him. He was shallow and narrow-minded, and sorely ignorant of the concept of autonomy and morality.

     Obviously, Ainsley could leave Montague. Obviously, she could break up with him. She could slap him across the face, look him dead in the eyes, and deny it. She could do anything she wanted to him, if one thought about it — but at what cost?

     The answer is simple: My family.

     And so the burden has boomeranged back to me, and I am burdened because I love her. It is an impossible equation, and the only reasonable solution I can think of is to remove one component of the triangle. I fancy it to be Montague.

     But who would do it, murder him? Me? Am I even capable of such a thing? The incidents during the war proved this unlikely. Logically, it wouldn't even work. If I murdered Montague, I would go to prison, and I still would not be with Ainsley.

     But it would keep her safe.

     Would I do it for love? I don't even understand it, and now I find every thought and action of mine motivated by this it — this vague, nebulous concept that could neither be touched nor seen. How can I be sure it is even there?

     These thoughts tumbled around in my mind at hyperspeed, like debris caught in a whirlwind, when all of a sudden, the doorway from the girls' dormitories clicked open, and who but Susan strolled in.

     With her dark waist-length hair and white pyjamas, she looked like one of the castle ghosts. The Blasted Cat turned its head to follow her as she breezed right past us to the snack cupboard at the back of the room, noticing neither me nor the cat as she opened it and began rummaging through the various items. 

     I immediately started going through escape routes in my head: I could sneak behind Susan to the boys' dorms, but I was on the end of the couch furthest away from the door, which means I have to go past the cat. I would sneeze if it didn't pounce on me first. If I walked around the back of the couch, she would see me. So there I was, trapped between one sodding cat and the most unpleasant Hufflepuff in school snuffling determinedly for food like a hog through a truffle grove.

     I watched Susan for a minute, astutely aware that up to that moment, I'd never been alone with her before. I knew she didn't like me, and neither had I made any effort to befriend her. She didn't seem like the type to be befriended. 

     You see, Susan never bothers hiding her dislike for people. And for a Hufflepuff, Susan disliked a lot of people. The only way you would know if you fall in her favour is simply by the expression on her face, which can only be one of two: a smile or a scowl. I've only ever received one, and I don't think I need to say which.

     As Susan contemplated a box of biscuits, I noted the familiar tune she was humming; a little Irish jig I'd heard before, a very, very long time ago, at the Quidditch World Cup campsite, wafting from a certain big green tent. I decided the best decision would be to stay completely still and wait for her to leave.

     As if the Blasted Cat could sense my dilemma, it jolted up from its haunches suddenly, and leapt from the armrest down onto the seat of the couch, making me nearly jump out of my skin. I clenched my jaw as it began to pad its way towards me, a look of intent in the two black slits of its eyes. The little grey shit.

     Susan was turning the box of biscuits around, blissfully unaware of the attack taking place behind her. Slowly, I reached for one of the throw pillows and brought it up to my chest in defence. The cat was barely an arm's length away from me now. My heart rate was skyrocketing by the second as my eyes flit desperately from the cat to Susan to the cat again.

     Ignorant of the fact that I could set it on fire with a single flick of my wand, the cat boldly lifted its front paw onto my thigh. Then the other. One hind leg. The other. It was standing on my lap now, tail dancing in the air. The insides of my nose began to tickle. I leaned back as far as I could, barely daring to draw a breath. I closed my eyes and pleaded for Susan to just take the damned biscuits and go. Instead, I heard the rustle of the package, the cautious crunch of a test nibble.

     The cat was climbing onto my hips now as I leaned further back. I could feel the four tiny pressure points of its paws on my abdomen, then my stomach, and then my chest. From behind my pillow shield, I could see its demonic eyes glinting like forbidden jewels, feel the little puffs of air tickling my skin as it put its nose to my body and sniffed about.

     A giant sneeze was building like a bubble in my nostrils. The more I tried to hold it in, the more it tickled. Unable to bear it any longer, I thrust the cushion outwards forcefully and felt it come into contact with the solidness of the cat's little body. It gave a tremendous yowl and tumbled backwards, tripping over my thighs as it scrambled away.

     I shot up from the couch, just as Susan turned around and saw me. In a split second, she'd pulled out her wand and, faster than I'd seen a person move, hurled a disarming spell at me. I ducked just in time and it flew straight into the fireplace where it popped and fizzled out.

     One thing about Hufflepuffs — they have terrible aim.

     I held my hands up in the air. "It's only me."

     "You scared me!" whispered Susan harshly, wand still pointed at me. "What do you think you're doing?"

     "I couldn't sleep."

     "Good," she gave a small, satisfied nod. "Lots to reflect about, I'm sure." When I made no reply, she jerked her chin at me. "Well?"

     "Well what?"

     "Get on with whatever it is you were meaning to do." She waved her free hand imperiously at me, like she was shooing away a dog.

     "I just wanted to sit," I said.

     She made a noise of disgust, as if the very idea of me sitting deeply offended her. "Fine," she said. "Then sit. I'm going back to bed."

     Neither of us moved. There seemed to be a primal instinct in both of us to not be the first one to turn our backs. But no amount of hostility could hide the kindness behind her navy eyes; a kindness that can only be detected by someone who has known the true opposite. So I did something I would never be able to explain later on. I asked her—

     "Why are you afraid of me?"

     The question startled her at first. Then she laughed, in a coarse and ugly way that was a far departure from her normal voice. "Hah! Me, afraid of the spoilt little rich boy? Whatever made you think that?"

     "Alright," I said. "Then what is it that you're so afraid of?"

     Again, her eyes betrayed her. But she recovered quickly, demanding, "Is this some sort of game to you?" 

     "What is?"

     "Cornering girls."

     "I don't know what you're talking about," I said truthfully.

     "First Hannah, then Ainsley," she said, accusingly. "You cornered them into loving you, and then you completely fuck them over. Bet you enjoy that, eh? Makes your little prick hard?" 

     I blinked in surprise. "Is that why you don't like me? Because I fucked your friends over?"

     "That's one of the many reasons, yes."

     "What are the other reasons?"

     "Why?" she was quick to deflect. "Planning to use them against me in the future?"

     "No," I said. "I do actually want to know." There was no need to mention her use of the word 'future', which suggested some sort of prolonged connection beyond our final exams.

     "You're a Death Eater," she stated, as a matter of factly. "And that, as everybody knows, is an incurable disease." She sounded breathless, like she was trying hard to pace her speech.

     "I know that," I said with a half-shrug. "What else?"

     "What else?" she echoed incredulously. "What else is there? That alone is reason enough to hate someone!"

     "I don't think you hate me, Susan."

     She laughed that non-laugh again. "You men are all the same. Always assuming they know what a girl thinks or feels."

     "You made me a sandwich that one time, even though I didn't ask for one," I pointed out.

     "Only because I didn't want you to starve," she sneered. "I would've done the same for a stray animal."

     I suddenly felt very tired, like all the energy from my body was snatched away into the air. This must've been how Ainsley felt trying to talk to me in the early days. "Fine," I said, dropping my arms. "I'm going to sit now. Goodnight." I did a quick sweep of the couch to make sure the Blasted Cat was nowhere near (it had disappeared) before resuming my place in the furthest corner.

     I could feel Susan's eyes on my back. Ignoring her, I hugged my legs to my chest and stared ahead at the fireplace, hoping she would go away. Or stay.

     An unsettling silence descended upon us, thickening in the darkness like blood. Finally, unable to help her solicitous tendencies, she asked, "Aren't you going to light it?"

     "The fireplace? No."

     A pause. "It's cold."

     "I'll live."

     More silence. "I don't know what she sees in you, honestly."

     I rested my chin between the peaks of my knees. "You and me both."

     Silently, she picked up the packet of biscuits she'd dropped from the floor, resealed it, put it back into the cupboard, and shut the doors. She walked back to the door from which she came, but just as she was going for the doorknob, I changed my mind. 

     "She thinks I'm kind," I said.

     Susan stopped in her tracks. Turned around. "Is that so?"

     "Yeah."

     "Well, anybody can be kind. Have you noticed which common room you're in?"

     "I think that was her point," I said mildly. "It's not kindness itself, per se. It was... it was the absence of it before."

     Susan's attention was successfully captured. She leaned against the doorway and crossed her arms. "So what kindnesses have you managed so far? Do enlighten me."

     In just the span of a few days, I had left Ainsley on the street, bartered her with Montague, and called Ernie, who was the kindest person to me next to Ainsley, a good-for-nothing conman. And there was nothing more to say about the years before the war. "Not much," I admitted. "Not as much as the things I shouldn't have done."

     "Thought so," she sniffed. "And you can go ahead and add leeching food and accommodation to the list."

     I turned to meet her eyes. "Should I leave? You clearly don't like me, and I know when I've overstayed my welcome. So just tell me to go and I'll go."

     Susan smiled, in the way polite people did when they were about to inconvenience someone. "Yes," she said, tightly. "You should probably go."

     I got up from the couch and walked to the door next to hers that led to the boys' dormitory. "Thank you," I said. "The rest of them probably didn't have the backbone to tell me. I appreciate the honesty."

     I swallowed down the nausea that was bubbling in my throat. Going back to the Slytherin chambers and having to be around Montague and Pansy and the lot made me feel physically ill. But I'd sooner eat one of Pansy's rotten cupcakes than beg a Hufflepuff.

     I was about to open my door when Susan started to laugh, the sound of which was completely different from the one earlier. It was rough, but soft around the edges, like a bubbling brook. She was laughing so hard she had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle the noise. I frowned, confused and not the least bit amused.

     "You stupid, stupid donkey," she gasped between giggles. "I was only joking! You really didn't have to make a whole self-righteous speech on it."

     I felt my cheeks colour with hot blood. "So should I leave or not?" 

      "I admit I'm not partial to cocky blonds with criminal parents and millions in the bank, but it doesn't mean you're not welcome." She looked me up and down, then leaned back against the door. Crossing her arms and ankles, she eyed me up and down. "Behold," she mused, the remnants of a smile still hanging off her lips. "The Slytherin Prince, chucked out of his kingdom with no place to go."

     I felt a twinge of irritation. But I was less angry now that I knew I didn't have to go back to that pit of snakes. "They didn't chuck me out," I said wearily, pretending to adjust my shirt so I wouldn't have to look at her. "I just think this place is... more conducive, that's all."

     She eyed me for a good long while. "Do you think Ainsley's right about you?"

     As of late, there has been something at work in my soul which I do not understand¹. The emotions still cut deep, but they are no longer sharp and bright, like slicing flesh open with an icicle, but round and soft, like getting soaked in a cold drizzle. The clouds part for the sun more often now, especially when Ainsley, Hannah, and Ernie are around. They make life a great deal easier to bear, though I would never admit it to them.

     "I don't know. I think so. I think a lot about the things I was doing wrong before. Looking back now, it's almost as if they hadn't been me. I mean, they were me, but now they're not anymore. Does that... does that make any sense?"

     "I believe that's called guilt."

     "I suppose so." 

     "Anybody can feel guilty about the crimes they've committed."

     I gave another shrug. "Anybody can be anything, I guess."

     She concentrated her gaze heavily on me. "Not everybody can be a murderer."

     "I didn't murder anybody."

     "You didn't murder Dumbledore, but you're as guilty as any of them," said Susan, sternly.

     "What're you on about?" I asked, now thoroughly confused. Susan scoffed. "You don't even remember Emily Coleman?"

     "Who?"

     "Emily Coleman, from Ravenclaw," she repeated, becoming impatient again. "During the Battle. You killed her with the Killing Curse. And Godric knows how many more."

     I couldn't believe my ears. "Is that what they're saying? That I went around killing students?" I wanted to laugh. I think I actually did, letting slip a disbelieving chuckle that aggravated Susan even further.

     "You're horrid to think that's funny," she said.

     "No, you're right." I shook my head to sober myself. "It's just that it's the furthest from what I actually did."

     She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to continue.

     I chewed the inside of my lip. Dredging up those memories I've tried so hard to repress was like scuffing a newly-healed wound. But I had heard about Susan's night terrors. Twice now I've been woken up by it. The first time, I'd gotten up in a hurry, thinking something terrible had happened to Ainsley, but Ernie held me back. It's just Susan, he'd said. You'll get used to it soon.

     They never knew what happened to Susan during the war. They'd lost sight of her shortly after the onslaught at the viaduct and only saw her again outside the castle before the final battle. Susan refused to speak about it, and they never pressed further. But Ainsley explained to me that their friendship was never the same after that. Susan became inexplicably detached from the group, drifting away often by herself — an isolation that seemed more self-imposed than anything.

     It was true that some part of me wanted to make Susan like me, but there was also a desire to make her feel safe around me, to have her see that there was no need to draw her wand at the slightest sound. We should not have to get used to nightmares. 

     "Um– at first, I tried to get Potter," I began. "Some last-ditch effort I knew was going to fail anyway. We were in the Room of Requirement, and that's when I lost Goyle. Potter saved me, but once I was on my own, I ran." I forced the knot in my throat back down. 

     "I ran and hid. I didn't even bother defending myself, just tried to duck every spell that came my way. I bumped into Hannah and Ainsley. Ainsley, she stopped for me, asked if I was alright. I wanted so badly to go with them... But I got up and ran away instead, because– I dunno... because I was scared. I just wanted to get out of there. I wasn't even looking for my parents. I think some part of me was hoping I wouldn't find them. I was a coward, but I was just trying to survive, same as everybody else." Overwhelmed by emotion, I added, a little fiercely, "So forgive me if I find the rumours funny, but they couldn't be further from the truth."

     Susan listened quietly, keen eyes darting across my face. A strange look had crept across her features that was neither forgiveness nor understanding. It looked more like uncertainty. In the long minute that she did not say anything, I decided that I didn't care if she believed me or not. Ainsley was leaving in a month anyway. Everything I did from now till then was futile, empty of meaning. No story of mine would change that, and neither would the trust of a distrustful girl.

     Susan wasn't a stranger. Yet, there was something stranger-ish about her; a distance that couldn't be closed, a line that couldn't be crossed. She was the quiet, righteous type, but if someone dared come too close, she'd lash out with ferocity, and they'd be startled back as if a tiger had roared in their faces. She was a Medusa, made angry and ugly by some invisible wound that swayed between material and mythical.

     So now, when she pushed herself off the door and took a step closer to me, my breath caught in my throat, and my body went rigid at the proximity.

     I had never seen her face so up close before. There is a small spattering of freckles under her left eye, just above the round of her cheeks. The burnt shadows of the night sliced across them, making her eyes glint like a forest creature. Her demeanour was placid as a lake, but shining with brutal, feminine energy that made her menacing... and destructively beautiful.

     She cleared her throat softly, almost politely. Then she took a deep breath, and said—

     "I ran too."

◇─◇──◇─◇

✼¹ "there has been something at work in my soul which I do not understand" is a reference to a line from Mary Shelley's 1818 novel Frankenstein. It opens with a series of letters between Captain Robert Walton, a writer exploring the North Pole, and his sister, in which he tells her of his passion to explore the world: 

There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious – painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour – but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein